


Be Your Hero

by stars28



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: 5+1 Times, Canonical Character Death, Families of Choice, Gen, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-05 17:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12194751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars28/pseuds/stars28
Summary: Sometime Treville wondered why he kept the Musketeers around. They were almost more trouble than they were worth.(Or alternatively: 5 times Treville acts like a father towards a Musketeer, plus 1 time he can’t.)





	Be Your Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Series 3: Episode 9: The Prize and Episode 10: We Are The Garrison.

_“Let me go_  
_I don't wanna be your hero_  
_I don't wanna be a big man_  
_Just wanna fight with everyone else…”_  
**\- Hero, Family of the Year.**

**1 - Athos.**

Treville held back a heavy sigh when he heard that Athos was, once again, in a tavern, seemingly trying to drink himself to death. These Musketeers were going to be the death of him. And he couldn’t send Aramis or Porthos, seeing as they were both laid up with wounds from their last mission.

He was going to have to go.

Treville dismissed the cadet with a wave of his hand and got up from behind his desk, shrugging on his coat. It was time to fetch his drunk, wayward Musketeer.

~

He found Athos in the third tavern he checked. The cadet hadn’t been kind enough to tell him _where_ Athos was drinking. He approached the table, weaving his way through the crowds, and sat opposite Athos. The Musketeer looked up from his glass of wine.

“Cap’n?” Athos slurred.

“Athos.” Treville responded, inclining his head in greeting, “Would you care to tell me why you’re drowning your sorrows?”

Athos shook his head, saying stubbornly, “No.”

“Fine.” Just because he was Captain of the Musketeers didn’t mean he wanted to know every detail about their private lives. “But I think you’ve had enough wine.”

Treville grasped the glass from Athos’s loose hold and took the bottle of wine for good measure. In this state, he wouldn’t put it past Athos to try and drink straight from the bottle.

“I haven’t.” Athos protested, trying keep hold of the glass and failing.

“Well, _I_ think you have.” Treville stood up from his seat and pulled Athos up as well, steadying the other man as he swayed from side to side. “Time to go. I assume you’ve paid?”

Athos managed a weak nod before Treville led him out of the tavern.

~

As Captain, Treville knew where each of his Musketeers lived if they didn’t live in the garrison. It was essential if they were needed off-duty, but often they could be found in the tavern nearest the garrison or duelling with Red Guards.

Athos’s rooms were not far from the garrison. Gradually, Treville supported Athos up the stairs and into the rooms that he rented from the scowling landlady who’d let them in. The room was dominated by the bed in the back corner, which was where Treville deposited Athos.

Athos merely groaned and shut his eyes against the sudden change from standing to sitting.

“Damn Musketeers.” Treville muttered under his breath as he fetched the empty bucket from by the door and placed it by Athos’s bed.

“Sorry Cap’n.” Athos mumbled against his pillow.

Treville shook his head in exasperation, saying lightly, “It is no matter Athos. I just wish you wouldn’t do this as often.”

“I’ll…try.”

As soon as Athos was asleep, Treville left, assuming that he’d be seeing Athos the next morning, looking no worse for wear. He headed for the garrison and the promise of a nice warm meal, courtesy of Serge, and then bed. He was too weary to be dealing with any more drunken Musketeers.

~

**2 - Aramis.**

During the morning’s briefing, Treville noticed that Aramis seemed dead on his feet, leaning not so subtly against Porthos and Athos, d’Artagnan directly next to the trio. He made a note of it, his eyes passing over the standing Musketeers, and gave them their orders; half getting guard duty at the Palace and half staying at the garrison to train. For once, it was a quiet day.

It was no accident that among the Musketeers staying behind was Aramis and his friends. Treville had learnt over the years that Athos, Porthos, Aramis and more recently, d’Artagnan, worked best when they were together. They were capable of working with other Musketeers, but those three – _four­_ – had a bond that was more like _brothers_. No, they were brothers and would do anything for each other.

Treville exited his office, where he’d retreated to do some paperwork, and looked down over the balcony. Unsurprisingly, the foursome dubbed as ‘the Inseparables’ were enjoying a late breakfast, laughing and joking. Well, Porthos, d’Artagnan and Aramis were joking, while Athos ate his breakfast slowly, no doubt suffering from a hangover. Even from here, he could tell that Aramis’s smiles and laughter was somewhat forced.

He leant against the balcony and called, “Aramis!”

The man in question tilted his head upwards, hat tipping backwards, and smiled widely, “Yes Captain?”

“Come up here.”

Just before Treville turned away to his office, he heard Aramis’s friends questioning him about why he was being called up to his office and smiled. They wouldn’t believe what he was going to do, as Aramis never disclosed what he wanted, and neither would Aramis, despite it happening each year. He leant backwards against his desk and waited for Aramis to enter.

A few moments later, Aramis entered, taking his hat off as he did.

“Captain.”

Up close, the tiredness Treville had spotted earlier looked even worse. Aramis had huge bags around his eyes, speaking of several days of little to no sleep, and his whole body seemed to slump towards the floor without his friends to lean against.

He felt his forehead crease in concern for the younger Musketeer and said, “Aramis, you need to sleep.”

“With all due respect Captain, I don’t.” Aramis replied, holding his hat by his side, “Or rather, I can’t.”

“Why?”

His Musketeer looked at the ground and mumbled ashamedly, “Nightmares.”

“Ah. I see.” Treville understood immediately – Savoy was haunting Aramis’s sleeping moments again. It was something that occurred about once a year. He straightened up and walked around his desk, beckoning Aramis to follow him.

He opened the door that led to his small but functional bedroom and stepped aside so that Aramis could enter.

“No, I couldn’t possibly.” Aramis protested, even as he stumbled sideways and his eyes fixed on the bed.

Treville sighed and looked at wooden floor, wondering exactly _why_ he had to make this argument every year.

“Aramis, you and I both know that this is the only way for you to get some sleep.” He said firmly, not quite making it an order, “Now get in the bed.”

“But… it’s yours.”

“Yes it is, and I’m lending it to you.” He gave Aramis a gentle shove towards the bed, which caused Aramis to stagger into the side of the bed and slump onto it, blinking slowly. He watched as his Musketeer automatically stripped himself of his weapons, pauldron, boots and jacket, setting them down with his hat next to the bed.

Satisfied that Aramis was going to do what he recommended, Treville withdrew with a smile as Aramis lay down on the bed.

Before he shut the door, he said soothingly, “Sleep Aramis.”

Treville sat back at his desk, prepared to get on with the paperwork he needed to do, but not without hoping that Aramis would sleep uninterrupted for a while. He realised that he had favourites, especially if he let them take naps in his own bed.

~

When Aramis awoke, it was to a shout that alerted Treville. He stood up quickly, abandoning his paperwork, and entered his bedroom to find Aramis breathing heavily, lying on his back.

“Aramis?” He said, approaching the man slowly. It wouldn’t do to startle him, not when he was like this. He’d done that once, by accident and he’d never do it again. It had been too traumatising for both of them.

Aramis merely whimpered, shifting so he was on his side, pressing his face into the pillow.

Treville traced a careful hand over the man’s bare neck, asking softly, “Aramis, do you know where you are?”

The response was muffled by the pillow, “At the garrison. Your bed.”

He smiled, breathing a little easier now that he knew that Aramis had a good grasp on where he was, “That’s correct Aramis.”

The Musketeer pushed himself up to a sitting position and asked, looking at Treville, “How long have I been asleep?”

“About two hours.”

“Where are Porthos, Athos and d’Artagnan?”

Treville grinned, “In the courtyard I believe. What are you going to tell them this time?”

Aramis got out of bed and started to gather his things, sliding his feet into his boots.

“I think it’s time to tell them the truth.” Aramis replied, strapping his pauldron to his right shoulder, “They’re my brothers, they’ll understand.”

~

**3 - Porthos.**

Porthos swore colourfully as he entered Treville’s office. He was clutching his left arm. Blood was seeping through his shirtsleeves.

“What happened?” He demanded, lurching up from his seat in alarm. He motioned for Porthos to take a seat as he grabbed the medical kit he kept stocked up out of habit. He was certainly glad he did that now.

Porthos took a breath before explaining, “Aramis’s fingers are broken, so he can’t help. Athos isn’t good with a needle and thread. And d’Artagnan kneeled over after dismounting from his horse. Athos said it was from sheer exhaustion.”

Even as Treville poured some wine over the wound after uncovering it, he asked, “And why not go to the infirmary?”

His Musketeer looked down at the floor and mumbled, “Don’t trust anyone else enough.”

The implication was that Porthos trusted the other Musketeers, but not to the extent he would willingly let them tend to him. Treville’s heart swelled with selfish pride momentarily and then he focused on the wound steadily seeping blood.

“You’re lucky this doesn’t need stitches.” He murmured, making no mention of Porthos’s previous confession, “Otherwise I’d be sending you to the infirmary regardless.”

Treville grasped the bandages, having deemed the wound clean enough to wrap up, and began to wind the bandage around Porthos’s wound. He took care in doing his task, seeing that the Musketeer wince more than once.

“There, all done Porthos.” He said, a few minutes later, “Try not to get wounded next time?”

Porthos stood up from his chair and grinned widely, “You know me Captain, always getting into trouble.”

“Usually taking Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan with you, if they weren’t going along with you in the first place.” Treville said dryly, “Now get out of my office.”

“Yes Captain.”

After Porthos left, Treville methodically tidied up and then sat down at his desk. He put his forehead against the desk and groaned loudly in despair. Why did his Musketeers keep getting into trouble? And why was it always up to him to sort them out afterwards?

~

**4 - D'Artagnan.**

In all honesty, the last place Treville expected to find d’Artagnan was standing in the middle of the courtyard while it was pouring with rain. Everybody else was inside; either their rooms or in a tavern.

“D’Artagnan! Come inside!” He called from the balcony.

There was no response from the youngest member of the Inseparables. Instead he just stood there, white shirt soaked through and wet hair sticking to his forehead. Treville cursed, if d’Artagnan stood there any longer, he would become ill.

Treville tried again, “D’Artagnan! Come inside! _Now!_ ”

Still no response. He realised that he’d have to drag him bodily inside, otherwise he’d stay out there all day. He winced as the heavy rain drenched him, despite his coat, but he strode down the steps regardless. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he quickly grabbed d’Artagnan by the upper arm and dragging him back up the stairs and into his office.

The man stood just beyond the doorway, unmoving and dripping water on the floor, while Treville bustled around, adding a few more logs to the fire and fetching a couple of towels, blankets and some of his own dry clothes from his bedroom. Once all the supplies were set up and a chair was by the fire, he approached d’Artagnan.

Unseeing eyes slowly focused on his face, “Captain?”

“D’Artagnan, you need to get out of those wet clothes.” He stated, “Otherwise you’re going to get ill.”

D’Artagnan blinked slowly, giving no answer.

Treville sighed; it was evident that the younger man was completely out of it. Gently, he began to strip d’Artagnan of his shirt, who began to shiver as soon as it was off. Treville frowned and grabbed a towel, beginning to dry d’Artagnan’s hair.

“Father. Don’t go.” D’Artagnan mumbled, tears building up in his eyes, “ _Please._ ”

When D’Artagnan’s hair was as dry as Treville could get it, he placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders and said firmly, “You’re with me d’Artagnan.”

D’Artagnan continued to mumble for his father as Treville dried his torso and guided him towards the chair by the fire. Then he stripped off the man’s breeches, replacing them with his spare ones after briskly drying d’Artagnan’s legs. He was pleased to note that the shivering was steadily decreasing with the close proximity to the fire.

“D’Artagnan?” Treville said, trying to get the man to focus on him again, “Why were you out in the rain?”

“It was raining when Father was murdered.” D’Artagnan responded in little more than a whisper, unconsciously letting the tears stream down his face, “It hurts so much.”

Treville was sure that the man wasn’t talking about the cold that was still racking his body with small tremors, but about the pain from losing his father. He was surprised that none of the other Musketeers had not noticed d’Artagnan’s distress and helped out. But then if he knew them at all, Porthos would be in a card game in a tavern while Athos drank himself into a stupor and Aramis would be in bed with a (hopefully unmarried) woman. So maybe it wasn’t surprising that he was the one who found d’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan,” He said, gently pulling his spare shirt over d’Artagnan’s head and puts his arms through the sleeves, “I’m ashamed that I did not noticed your grief earlier. I cannot spare you of your grief, but perhaps I can help you shoulder the pain.”

The shivering had subsided and d’Artagnan looked up at him with wet eyes, “T-thank you Captain.”

“It’s the best I can do.” Treville shrugged, pulling a chair in front of his Musketeer and sitting down on it, passing the other man a blanket, “Now, why don’t you tell me what your Father was like?”

D’Artagnan smiled faintly and began to tell him of the time his Father had spent tutoring him in swordsmanship. Treville could think of no better way to spend a rainy day.

~

**5 - Athos, Aramis, Porthos & d'Artagnan.**

Treville glared at each of the Inseparables in turn, taking pleasure in the way they fidgeted and looked anywhere but into his eyes.

“Why am I hearing reports of you four duelling and brawling with Red Guards last night?” He demanded, slamming his fists against the desktop. He was pleased when all four of his Musketeers flinched to varying degrees.

Porthos’s mouth barely moved as he muttered, “They started it.”

“What. Did. You. Say.” Treville snapped, his eyes resting on Porthos. If he wasn’t so angry, he would’ve found no small degree of amusement in how _scared_ Athos, Aramis and d’Artagnan looked for their brother.

“I, err. That is, the Red Guards started the fight – they threw the first punch.” Porthos explained, shamefaced.

“Was this before or after you cheated them at cards?” He questioned, hoping to figure out what happened quickly.

The other three Musketeers poorly hid smirks while Porthos himself looked offended at the accusation. Treville suddenly realised that it wouldn’t be a simple matter of questioning them and discovering what occurred.

D’Artagnan stepped in, “I actually believe that it was Aramis flirting with their barmaid which started it.”

“No, no. It was Athos’s drinking of their wine.” Aramis replied, glancing at the youngest member.

“Do not bring me into this.” Athos said, shifting his feet, “But if you must, it was d’Artagnan’s boasting of his superior swordsmanship which began it all.”

D’Artagnan seemed to take offence at that comment and started to reply, only to be overridden by Aramis announcing that it was the Red Guards’ Captain looking at him funny that had started the fight. Athos commented dryly that it was Porthos’s boisterous behaviour that had attracted the Red Guards’ attention, even as Porthos protested it was all Aramis’s fault.

Treville looked at the now squabbling Musketeers and gave up on trying to find out why they’d been brawling and duelling with Red Guards. He sat down in his desk chair heavily, wondering when he’d inadvertently adopted four, highly skilled and deadly Musketeers. He cursed before ordering the Inseparables out of his office. He felt a headache brewing behind his temples.

~

**+1 - Treville's Funeral.**

Aramis looked down at the grave, aware of his brothers standing shoulder to shoulder with him. He sighed deeply, attempting to ignore the tears in his eyes. He jerked up when he heard d’Artagnan speak quietly.

“You know, he helped me when the reality of my father’s murder hit me.” D’Artagnan chuckled humourlessly, “I was standing in the first rain since my father’s death and he dragged me indoors. He gave me his own clothes.”

Athos chipped in with, “He stopped me from drinking myself to death far too many times.”

Something about the stillness of the graveyard made Aramis confess, “He helped me with yearly sleeplessness after Savoy. The day I told you was still struggling with nightmares from that massacre was another time he let me sleep in his bed.”

“I’ve got a small scar on my arm from where he bandaged me up after that mission where you broke your fingers Aramis.” Porthos said.

“I remember that mission.” Aramis murmured and then raised his voice, “To Captain Treville!”

His three brothers echoed him, “To Captain Treville!”

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another Musketeers fanfiction. I think I’ve got some sort of addiction.


End file.
